Bayou Country, 1834. Aubert Marston awakens on the eve of his twenty-seventh birthday to discover he’s undergone some disturbing physical changes. His body is bigger, stronger and hairier than it’s ever been, and burns with the lust of a beast. To make matters worse, a hundred guests are about to arrive for the plantation’s annual ball.

A mysterious young woman named Corrine appears in his home, temping Aubert to unleash the inner lycan, and family secrets from a medieval past surface. Corrine lures Aubert to a bayou camp of Cajun Loup-Garous—werewolves, But Aubert’s wealth and good looks are no advantage here. He must surrender to his feral nature and fight tooth and claw against another male pack member to claim Corrine as his own.

With clockwork precision, in the restless
hour before dawn, the oppressive leviathan of a nightmare rose from the depths,
grabbed Aubert and yanked him down.

Once the dream captured him there was no
hope of being spared. Aubert’s heart pounded and sweat broke on his brow, but
all he could do was endure the inevitable as it unfolded behind his closed
lids. He willed himself to wake but there was no escape from the anguish that
insisted on being relived each morning.

This had happened so often in recent days
that it was more of a ritual than a dream. Aubert remained alert but helpless
as a strange trancelike state dragged him along an unrelenting storyline
seemingly written in stone.

He heard the familiar crunch of frost
beneath his boots and felt the chill of a howling gale as he crossed a rugged
mountain pass. He glanced down and saw the same sight he saw every morning—a
rough woolen tunic covered in chain mail, bloodstained leather leggings and a
dagger strapped to his hip. The details never varied. A jolt of insight raced
through him that this wasn’t merely a dream, that this limbo realm was as solid
as anything he’d ever known.

The rocky pass descended into a steep
valley cleaved in two by a turbulent green river. Against an amber sunset a
rustic cottage with curved walls and a conical thatched roof perched near the
river’s edge. The cottage appeared neglected, without a trace of candlelight
within or a comforting curl of smoke rising from the hearth.

He knew what came next and it didn’t
lessen the emotional impact in the slightest. He’d memorized this part of the
dream. Tortured thoughts tumbled through his mind.

She must be freezing. Why didn’t she light
a fire? I left her enough wood for winter...

And indeed a well-stocked woodpile sat
unused beside the cottage.

At that moment, true panic set in.

He had to reach the cottage and find her.
There would be no peace until he knew. He ran so fast he slid and toppled on
the icy path. The hilt of his heavy broadsword struck and bruised his leg. He
stood and limped forward but he wasn’t moving fast enough.

He cast the sword aside in frustration,
stripped away his clothing and fell to the ground on all fours. He scraped his
fingers into the frozen earth, relishing the biting sting of ice beneath his
fingernails, and watched as his hands transformed into gripping paws and his
arms and legs morphed into the lean limbs of a wolf.

He sprang to his feet in the agile body of
a wolf and loped down the path at great speed. As he approached the cottage, he
stopped to sniff the air. Snow flurries stung his eyes as he squinted with
suspicion through the cottage’s unlatched door. He sensed no movement
in the shadows, nor did he catch the faint whiff of a freshly extinguished
campfire, all disturbing signs that he was alone in this desolate place.

He padded inside the cottage, sniffing
everything in frantic agitation, but only a faded hint of her hung in the air.
In a crushing instant he knew she’d deserted the cottage weeks, perhaps months
ago while he was on crusade.

Aside from a bed, table and a few
practical things, the cottage was bare. Her colorful silk scarves, painted
bowls and endless jars filled with dried herbs and magical talismans were
missing—including her sacred book of truths, the possession of which was a virtual
death sentence if discovered by the royal court.

Before he had left on the king’s errand
into Saracen territory, she had warned him it would have to be this way when he
returned and he had refused to believe her.

The harsh facts soured in his soul. The
love of his life and his secret wife was gone. He knew she had fled east to
distant lands, where his liege King Charlemagne forbade him to follow. By now
she was far beyond his reach. Bitter emptiness unlike any tragedy he’d ever
tasted sliced deep into his heart.

He hated her for leaving and wanted her
back but he also understood why she had done it. She’d saved her life and his,
and most likely the life of their unborn child. After the enchantment she’d
cast on him, she couldn’t remain in France and expect to live.

For everyone’s sake, the secret had to
remain hidden. In his heart of hearts he knew she had done the right thing, but
it didn’t ease his grief. Now that she was gone he’d never again have what he
desired most. Bleak days lay ahead. True love, passion and a piece of his soul
were lost to him. There would be no replacing her. Any woman who followed in
her wake would merely be a shadow of what had been.

He threw back his head and howled the low,
mournful wolf wail of an abandoned mate.

There was no answer within the valley’s
icy solitude.

In that abysmal moment he locked his
heart, trapping loneliness and anger within, and pounced on the bed they had
shared as lovers. In a vicious storm of flying straw and feathers, he tore into
the mattress with fangs bared and shredded it, guaranteeing no one would ever
lie on their wedding bed again.

Chapter One

Louisiana, plantation country, August 1834

Aubert stirred half-asleep on the bed and
kicked a restless leg free of the covers. It was far too warm for even the
weight of a sheet on his bare skin. He lay trapped in a strange dream about
shredding a mattress. The muscles of his jaw ached from grinding his teeth. The
exhausting dream caused extreme agitation. No sleep at all might have been
better.

The shrill screech of a peacock jolted him
awake, freeing him at last from the dream’s oppressive grip. He flipped
sideways and shouted out of the open bedroom window, “Stop the holler’n!”

The peacock ignored his pleas and shrieked
louder. Its sharp cry yanked Aubert’s nerves taut and punished his ringing
eardrums.

“I don’t want to hear that damn racket.”
He covered his ears with his palms. “Between nightmares and squawking birds, a
man can’t sleep a wink. It ain’t right. It can’t be morning already.”

But he clearly saw it was. A golden ribbon
of light glowed on the horizon. Aubert squinted out of the second story window
of the stately Marston plantation house and saw the other sure sign of morning,
the emerald flash of peacock feathers fluttering atop the horse stables.

The beautiful but irritating bird hopped
across the roofline of the stable, continuing to shriek a nerve-grating welcome
to the rising sun.

“Do you have to do that?” Aubert glared at
the noisy bird. “You’re killing me, you fancy piece of poultry…”

About the Author Katalina Leon:

I’m an artist, an author, mother and wife. I write for Ellora’s Cave, Loose Id Publishing and a couple new publishers to be announced soon. I try to bring a touch of the mystical and a big sense of adventure to everything I write because I believe there’s a bold, kick-ass heroine inside all of us who wants to take a wild ride with a strong worthy hero.